The Unlikely Hosts
by the inscrutable one
Summary: Our 'heroes' set out to uncover the ancient mysteries of Stonehenge but suddenly find themselves running an English guesthouse! By Isis, can this be so? A humorous tale of intrigue and suspense beset by buttered scones and cream teas. Amusingly bonkers.
1. Scrambled brains

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. But in this particular hallway on a depressingly drizzle-soaked morning it was the 'Sunday Times'. The familiar arrival of the hefty weekend edition of the once great 'Thunderer' had been severely muted by the vagaries of the British climate and was now little more than a muffled 'pop'. The paperboy drew upon his poor knowledge of origami - basically the construction of unimpressive and limp winged cranes - and forced the wet paper compress expertly through the old brass letterbox of Number 30. The resoundingly dull flop as the damp wedge of newsprint hit the even damper doormat was all too familiar to Malik Ishtar. Over the centuries his ears had become finely attuned to the tintinnabulation of temple bells and the sadistic symphony of wildly screaming victims but now he responded to music of a different kind. Sadly it was a long way from the 'Music of the Spheres' or even the less familiar 'Dulcet Tones of the Dodecahedron'. His supple senses now snapped to the percussive fluttering of the early morning mail delivery and the irritating bleep of the automatic egg timer.

As he beat the eggy offerings into sickly yellow submission he knew all too well that the yolk was on him, for both his mind and his eggs had been well and truly scrambled. Although his breakfasts had acquired a not inconsiderable reputation in the nearby towns and villages, and the salacious succulence of his sausages had caused quite a stir at the local vicarage, it just wasn't enough. He could hear more moronic customers shuffling downstairs eager to plunge into his porridge and fiddle with his French toast. They ate and ate but deep down they could never appreciate his artistry. The fools. How could they choose rice crispies over freshly smoked kippers? Had they no soul? (Well they had upon arrival but lost them soon after).

Malik eagerly drew a poniard from his belt and slowly slit the top of the cereal box. The sugary innards spilled out into the waiting receptacle. He wasn't quite sure how an evil nemesis such like himself had ended up as the owner of Teetering-on-the-Brink's horribly twee 'Bide-a-Wee' Guesthouse but his dark soul was being slowly devoured by a burning desire to escape. At least he thought it was a burning desire – either that or the bloody toaster was on the blink again!

One thing was certain. The unremitting search for the Millennium Puzzle had to continue. It was his destiny and nothing could stop him - well nothing once he'd delivered a soft-boiled egg to Mr Karita in Room 3. Things had changed. Oh Isis, how they'd changed! In the past he'd derived delicious satisfaction from dishing out cruel punishments to deserving and - better still – undeserving enemies but now he was dishing out tea, doilies and digestive biscuits. His intimate knowledge of the exquisite suffering to be derived from the deft application of boiling oil had been perverted and was now confined to the murky depths of the deep fat fryer and the endless provision of perfectly cooked chips. For centuries countless adversaries had 'had their chips' at his hands and the only difference now was the addition of a solitary piece of greasily battered cod. He should never have come to England. In particular he should have stayed well away from Stonehenge. More specifically, he should never have been enticed by Airmiles. God the Airmiles! Why oh why was he never upgraded like that sodding Yugi Mutou?

At the back of the kitchen Bakura Ryou had a lot on his shoulders. Principally it was a 25lb sack of potatoes for that evening's 'Fish and Chip Special but he was also heavily encumbered by guilt. His mind drifted back to early summer. Malik had always preferred photogenic backgrounds to look evil in but excessive knife purchasing had left them painfully impoverished and on this occasion, photogenic glowering was absolutely out of the question, They'd managed to scrabble together a few Airmiles stolen from the souls of unfortunate fellow travellers but in their current impecunious position neither the Valley of the Kings nor the Temple of Angkor Wat were within easy reach. However, Ryou did have another mystical destination in mind. For some inexplicable reason he often found himself talking in a strange British accent and was passionately attracted to umbrellas, queues and feelings of vague disappointment. Now this beguiling quasi-Britishness bubbled to the surface. They would go to Stonehenge...and that is where their troubles began.

The flight to the UK had been comparatively trouble free - although the later discovery of 12 obese Americans neatly folded to fit into a single overhead locker had caused some consternation amongst the cabin staff. Unfortunately the confiscation of Malik Ishtar's knife collection by customs officials at Heathrow had not gone down well with our anti heroes and the imposition of a hefty fine had all but unleashed the full fury of Dark Malik who had, as a result, done unspeakable things in the airport departure lounge. The defenestration of a security guard was most uncalled for and the chaos caused in W H Smith was considerable. Their carefree juggling of the confectionery section had played havoc with the current 2 for 1 offers and the untangling of the Curly Wurly bars reduced a number of grown men to tears. Worse still, it had taken many hours to reshuffle all the daily newspapers to fit their correct colour supplements. Such wanton juggling of periodicals had seldom been seen in the UK and it was clearly a sign of much unpleasantness to come. This was evil pure and simple.

In the ensuing uproar Malik and Bakura had been forced to flee the concourse with few possessions and less money, which left them with little choice but to hitchhike their way towards Stonehenge. Getting a lift had not proved easy, as they did look somewhat...'er...strange. However eventually managed to persuade a short-sighted delivery driver that they were leading members of A.L.A.S. (the 'Asiatic Liberace Appreciation Society') and they were finally on their way. For the first 50 miles the hapless driver had tried to make small talk with the curious pair and although the one holding the umbrella had been just about bearable, that Malik bloke was very heavy going. When asked to name his favourite food, film and football team he had given the answer 'Knives' to each question. Perhaps the one with the odd accent was his carer? The driver didn't care to ask and turned on the radio.

Things had gone surprisingly well for most of the journey but it wasn't long before disaster struck. Careless knife juggling on the part of Malik had seen a particularly sharp dagger fly out of the van's nearside window and within seconds a resoundingly explosive bang had brought the Ford Transit to a halt. At first glance it was an ordinary flat tyre but on closer inspection an unusual one that bore a beautifully bejewelled dagger protruding from within its rubbery entrails. But where on earth were they? Ryou allowed himself some introspective musing time. There were many paths on the road to enlightenment but sadly the intersection of the A303 and A344 did not appear to be one of them. All-powerful beings though they were, the lack of fava bean sandwiches had left them sorely weakened and they would simply have to wait for a roadside recovery vehicle like the other motor driving mortals.

Two hours later and still nothing! Malik could feel the rage bubbling inside him and he knew he had to act. Unfortunately his insistence on fitting a Nightmare Wheel rather than the recommended Goodyear radial, led to the untimely deaths of three AA men and the illegal and painful use of a tyre jack. As a result the Ford Transit driver fled in terror forever haunted by his brush with the 'curious gentlemen' and the poor fellow was further blighted by the stubborn refusal of the Automobile Association to renew his breakdown cover.

And yet the Nightmare Wheel had come up trumps. For although an unfortunate number of overtaking motorists had fallen foul of it's rotating knife attachments - which led, by the way, to a meltdown of the regional ambulance service but a long-remembered field day for local scrap metal merchants - it had at least managed to carry the van towards the little village of Teetering-on-the-Brink where it came to an abrupt juddering halt. By this time Malik and Bakura were expecting the worst and it was in this little hamlet that they indeed found it. For peering into the darkness they could just make out the depressingly cheery outline of an irrepressibly chintzy establishment known as the 'Bide-a-Wee' Guesthouse. Could this, they wondered, be the ensuite from hell?

When Mrs Clutterbuck opened the heavy wooden door to her newly arrived guests she was expecting George and Dorothy Neatly and their boisterous child William. But what the dear lady actually got was very different indeed…


	2. The Carved Roast

The arrival of George, Dorothy and little Willy ought to have been an occasion for wild celebration at the 'Bide-a-Wee' guesthouse, for the tawdry temptations offered by theme parks proprietors had been whittling away at such wholesome 'stay at home' holidays for many years. Quite understandably, in comparing the competing attractions of a 'brisk walk around the village' with 'an astral glide through the Ninth dimension with Captain Kruger and his Warbleblaster Death Ray', there were few children who willingly voted for the sedate stroll. Pester power being what it was, the Neatly's had done surprisingly well to persuade William that he was in for the adventure of a lifetime. But indeed he was and so were all the guests at 'Bide-a-Wee'…whether they wanted one or not.

When dear Mrs Clutterbuck ceased folding her antimacassars and opened the heavily oak panelled front door she could hardly believe her eyes. For much of the afternoon she had been expecting the arrival of a respectable middle class family weighed down with maps, boiled sweets and waterproofs but instead she found she herself staring blankly at the bedraggled and bemusing figures of Messrs Malik and Bakura. And just as a nasty burn is always extraordinarily successful in reminding you just how asleep you must have been but one second earlier, so the unexpected arrival of these two 'interesting gentlemen' jolted Mrs Clutterbuck into considering just how pleasant it might have be to been colour blind. Nevertheless she felt her inner-Englishness willing her to be polite in the face both of adversity and the odd couple's unusually tight fitting trousers. She had heard tell of 'Top Shop' and the bedraggled fashion victims therein but never thought she would be welcoming two of their finest window dressers. This was her naïve summation and for the time being, ignorance was going to have to be bliss.

Teetering-on-the-Brink had always been a somnambulantly sleepy hamlet. Thought of as idyllic by many a passing motorist, those whom the fates had seen fit to abandon permanently in the village saw it as little more than a living death – albeit one with charming rose gardens, delightful cream teas and a frighteningly efficient Women's Institute. In Teetering's survival of the fittest, it was those two awfully decent chaps Nice and Normal who'd won the final battle. Their resoundingly defeated rivals, Strange and Unnerving had long since shuffled off to Glastonbury.

A chill gust of wind and the unwelcome intrusion of rain into her cosy hallway suddenly snapped Mrs Clutterbuck back into friendly interrogation.

"Good evening gentlemen. What can I do for you?"

Fearing the worst, Ryou reached deep into his consciousness and summoned up his most urbanely British accent. "Madam, if your charming establishment could furnish us with a room and some light refreshment we would be forever obliged to you!" The feeling of obligation was gratuitously insincere but his cut glass tones pinged elegantly off the crystal wall sconces and a purr of approving delight emanated from Mrs C. Her steely resolve was starting to melt like the best butter on her scones.

"Normally I would love to help but I'm afraid our last remaining room is a single. We did have a family room but Mr and Mrs Neatly are due to arrive any time now and…"

"Let me stop you right there!" Malik's interruption was abrupt and timely. He had noticed the name Dorothy Neatly on a luggage label belonging to one of the many motorcars that had been mechanically disembowelled by his inappropriately fitted Nightmare Wheel. He knew full well that the Neatly family had been hospitalised and gleefully hoped that they would never recover, so in typically wily manner he decided to draw upon this ill-gotten knowledge and ingratiate himself further.

"Let me inform you dear lady that we are both friends of Dorothy!"

This shocking announcement echoed it's way down the hallway and one could almost hear the sound of the other guests' ears pricking to attention. Why was Mrs Clutterbuck not surprised? It all fitted. Apart, that is, from those ridiculously tight trousers. Malik sensed the need for further elaboration.

"That is to say, we are friends of Dorothy Neatly. She and her family have been unexpectedly delayed and she asked if we'd care to take her booking. So here we are!"

Mrs C. smiled and ushered them inside. "Well I suppose that's all done and dusted then my dears. Sign the register for me and I'll toast your crumpets as soon as you're ready". Malik's sado-masochistic self beamed at the thought. Surely such delightfully cruel punishments were unheard of in such gentile establishments? He was going to be sadly disappointed.

The daily dash of hungry guests into Bide-a-Wee's communal dining room was an experience that neither Malik nor Bakura would easily forget. They had been singularly successful in keeping their Dark counterparts under wraps for the past hour and any scrabbling noises had been explained away as the persistent pining of unruly dogs. Luckily Mrs C. had long been an animal lover. Indeed, her passion for dumb animals was the one reason why she had been able to countenance marrying her late and significantly unlamented husband, Henry. She had seen the mysterious gentlemen carrying baskets into their room and had been easily persuaded that they contained a pair of miniature French poodles. But coiffured canines they were not. Soon enough everyone and everything in Teetering's twee world would be going to the dogs.

In the meantime there were more important things to consider. Dinner! As per usual, Mrs Clutterbuck used her ancient gong to summon her guests to the evening repast. That sound! What was that sound? Delving deep into his murky past Malik remembered something very similar lying within the temple complex of Sadgitt where it's reverberation inevitably led to crazed bloodletting, wild orgiastic wanderings or an unruly dollop of both. Here, bereft of its evil spiritual setting, it simply heralded the imminent arrival of the main meal. Worse still, with the average age of the diners hovering around sixty-five, the chance of a passing virgin had never been particularly good either. Had the gong been capable of feeling shame it would have felt it now. It was. And it did.

As it was Sunday - the allotted day for the traditional British 'roast' - the assembled guests had been painstakingly prised from the comforting sanctuary of their usual linen-covered 'islands' and instead were forcibly seated together at a large and heavily carved oak refectory table. This 'togetherness' was painfully, agonisingly un-British and fear and loathing could be read on the faces of almost all of those present. The ruddy and round-faced Major Uproar spluttered with scarce suppressed indignation, Reverend Golightly prayerfully clutched at his cassock and Muriel and Mavis Freebody (spinsters of this parish) rattled their jewellery in maidenly anticipation. Bakura nodded and smiled weakly to himself, desperately preparing for the bland polite conversation that was sure to follow. Malik however made little attempt to fit in and simply played with the knives whilst mumbling disconsolately about the disgraceful bluntness of the cutlery. A voice rang out from the kitchen disturbing the faux friendliness that hung heavily over the table.

"Dinner is served!"

Malik and Bakura were starving. The array of limp and sad-looking sandwiches on offer at Heathrow Airport had fallen far short of a feast and they were keen to dine and dine well. Unfortunately for them there was neither a myriad of mung beans nor a surfeit of sushi to be had. Instead Mrs C. toppled into the room carrying a hefty silver salver upon which rested a succulent slab of the finest roast beef. Normally the arrival of a slab of sacred cow would have provoked deep introspective debate between the two associates about the morality of tucking into the food of the Gods and the religio-ethical quandaries therein. But they were swiftly informed that it was organic and from Waitrose, so that was alright then. There is little doubt that philosophical debate and mouth-watering meat make curious bedfellows. As Malik was later heard to mumble, "Bugger the Gods and pass the gravy!"

The evening passed off almost without incident. However, the suggestion of the other guests that Malik should be invited to carve the meat was, in retrospect, ill advised. His jubilant cry that "I am about to whip out something that will amaze you!" caused particular consternation amongst the Freebody sisters particularly as his hand seemed to be hovering in the general direction of his crotch. When nothing other than a razor-sharp jewel-studded knife was produced there was an audible sigh of relief from all around the table, broken only by a sudden yelp from the Major as he caught a flesh wound from Malik's manic and wildly over-enthusiastic carving technique. Nevertheless the craftsmanship of the chief window dresser impressed all and sundry, providing sufficient slices for all and a doggy bag for the 'poodles' upstairs.

As the guests made their way back to their rooms after dinner Bakura sat contentedly in the lounge and sipped his sherry. He gazed at his companion who was busy whittling away at the fireplace with yet another bloody knife.

"You know, we may not have found the Millennium Puzzle but we have discovered a rather good recipe for Jam Roly Poly". He felt sure that the anger of the Gods would be assuaged – especially by the overmantle of comfortingly thick custard that had wrapped the sensuous suet in its pale yellow pulchritude.

And so the first day at Bide-a-Wee passed in perfect peace. Nobody had died (yet) and in an act of warped altruism the entire canteen of cutlery had been freshly sharpened by that nice Mr Malik. It had all turned out so much better than expected. Yet within twenty-four hours the unfortunate incident at the Teetering-on the-Brink Tea Rooms would change everything…


	3. The Proof of the Pudding

To the casual, smart-casual and somewhat formal observer there was little amiss in Teetering-on-the-Brink to suggest the calamitous days that lay ahead. As shafts of moonlight broke though the scurrying clouds one could make out the greying snout of a visitor to the village scurrying between the hedges and floral borders of the adjacent cottages. No, it was not Major Uproar. For nursing his wounded hand and fortified by a heady mix of sliced sirloin and vintage port, he had retired to bed some hours ago. Neither was it the Freebody sisters. Over dinner they had been unwisely emboldened by countless 'sips' of sherry to cast off the spinster and assume the seductress but in attempting to flirt with the new arrivals neither side had given a truly convincing performance. It was a polite dialogue of the deaf between the alcoholically confused ever-hopeful and the camply clothed ever- confusing. However the sisters had gone to bed happy, and having burrowed deep down beneath their eiderdowns they would awake in a few hours to feelings of girlish guilt and blissful content. But what of Reverend Golightly? Was he the mysterious intruder? Well he had long since retired to the Vicarage and had fallen asleep in his deep-buttoned armchair, dreaming as he inevitably did, of the countless beautiful brides and oafish grooms that had lurched through his lych gate. Ah, if only they had seen the error of their ways and run off with him instead!

No, this particular grey snout belonged to an elderly fox who had been scavenging though the compost heaps and dustbins of Teetering for many years. Thanks to the affluent nature of this small but prosperous village, he had been able to eschew the grim pickings of his town-dwelling and council estate wandering neighbours (i.e. cast-off burger buns, fat-drenched fish fingers and rubber unmentionables) and was more used to dining on uneaten salmon sandwiches and scraps from well-carved roasts liberally sprinkled with cigar clippings. The 'Bide-a-Wee' Guesthouse normally promised rich pickings for any roaming Reynard but on this occasion the guests had dined all too well. He had caught the scent of the remaining sirloin but was disappointed to discover that the remains were merely a few scant morsels of meat enriched with the last lickings from the gravy boat. Faced with such a frugal feast imagine his surprise and delight when two daintily prancing figures sprang down from the window above and dropped softly to the ground in front of him. As if delivered direct from foxy heaven, there atop the close-clipped lawn stood two small, defenceless, hideously bouffant but nevertheless acceptably meaty French Poodles. "That", he thought to himself, "will do very nicely".

Of course, little did he imagine that they were thinking precisely the same thing about him. It was an horribly unequal contest. When both pairs of poodle eyes started to glow an unsettling and hypnotic red, he realized that the writing – and sadly most of his innards – was already on the wall. For a split second the fox had managed to assimilate deep into his cunning animal instinct the essential difference between a French Poodle and a malignant evil spirit (_and_ when best to avoid them) but a mere millisecond after that, the newly acquired knowledge was utterly and completely redundant. Vive la France!

Back in Room 5, Bakura had been woken from deep sleep by the unearthly screeching and screaming emanating from the garden below. Up to that point he had been luxuriating in one of his more majestically surreal 'British' dreams. Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II had been about to bestow upon him the Wimbledon Men's Championship, a knighthood and a lifetime's supply of bespoke Savile Row suits when the entire Household Cavalry suddenly turned upon him and began to beat him senseless with chocolate umbrellas. He wasn't quite sure whether this last part was enjoyable or not and was about to accuse Malik of some devious involvement when he awoke with a start. He sat upright in bed, sweating nervously and glanced around the room for the telltale sign of any protruding chocolate ferrules. There were none. He sighed with relief and slowly drifted from his dreamlike state back into Teetering-on-the-Brink and cold reality. Seeking to ground himself further he gazed around for his friend Malik and to his horror saw a naked torso smeared liberally from mouth to midrib with gleaming rivulets of red blood.

The lack of any obvious wounds and the steady rise and fall of Malik's chest told Bakura that that there was nothing to fear as far as his friend's life was concerned. But another possibility slithered into view that was much worse. Had Malik's blood lust finally got the better of him? Had the newly-sharpened canteen of cutlery been used for evil intent? Was there now one less guest residing at the 'Bide-a-Wee' Guesthouse? A quick glance at the empty dog baskets confirmed Ryo's fears that the ring spirits were on the loose and that Dark Malik had, in all likelihood, returned once more. He was unsure what to do. Should he attempt to follow the scarlet trail back to its grisly source or confront his sleeping friend with the gory evidence? He shook Malik violently.

"I know what you've done! I – know - what - you've - done!!"

Malik's glistening torso suddenly sprang to life and in an instant an elegantly bladed knife was brought to bear just adjacent to Bakura's pale white throat. "Oh I hear you my friend but of what concern could it possibly be to you? My actions are planned with precision and their immorality is of little consequence to me. I get what I want, when I want it. I have certain cravings you know!"

Ryo could scarcely hide his disgust. Only hours earlier Mrs Clutterbuck had been the most genial of hosts and the sheer quality of her custard should have been enough to spare her from such a fate. Assuming of course that the unfortunate victim had been her? He let out a plaintive cry. "Hadn't Mrs Clutterbuck given you enough Malik? Did you have to take it all from her"

"I took it all with pleasure", jeered Malik. "Mortals have always failed to satiate me and ultimately I took forcefully what she would not give freely."

"Her very essence?" sniffed Bakura. 'You took her very essence?"

"There was no essence!" came the sneering reply.

This was too much! How could he deny her very life force? Bakura reeled away in disgust and in so doing deftly disarmed his callous accomplice sending his knife spinning through the air until it embedded itself amidst the pyre of shortcake biscuits that were nestling upon the floral tea tray. The inevitable UHT milk carton was split and it's contents splattered Malik's chest. Without a sniff of sorrow or snippet of self-loathing he licked greedily at the intertwining rivulets of white and red and smiled knowingly at his indignant friend.

"I have left some for you, you know". He reached slowly under the bed and tugged at something - something unmentionable!

"Dear God, no!!"

Ryo could feel his mind giving way. Giving way like the ever-shifting sand dunes that dogged the most seasoned of travellers as they made vain efforts to progress through the scorching desert. He desperately tried to send himself back to the chocolate umbrellas but even this confectionary refuge was closed to him. The comforting coverlet of sleep was no longer able to caress him and ugly truths had taken the place of the rather charming members of the Household Cavalry. He stared in horror as Malik's arm sinuously stretched and snaked still further under the bed. He could hear his friend laughing with scarce disguised glee as he grasped greedily for Mrs C's tasty remains. Bakura tried repeating a chant to steady his nerve. " I will have none of it! I will have none of it!!" But resistance was now futile and a foreboding silence engulfed him.

Imagine the shock when this pallid pause in the proceedings was suddenly rent asunder by the cacophonous clatter of metal tray and teacups as a cannonade of shortcake and milk cartons were sent leaping up towards the walls and ceiling. The two friends jumped up in horror and gazed in creeping disbelief as two red-eyed French Poodles finished their clumsy scramble through the open bedroom window and came to rest on the upended tea tray. Bakura stared quizzically at the dogs and back at his still shirtless companion. So Dark Malik had not been in attendance? But what remains had Malik hidden under the bed? Bakura stared hard into the eyes glinting ahead of him. "Show me!" he gasped.

Malik dropped to his knees and reached sheepishly beneath the bedframe. His toned body tightened as his fingertips clutched for, and retrieved, a plain domed metal dish. He sighed in relief and clutched the receptacle close to his sweat-laden chest as if he wished to caress it and nurture it back to life. He pouted petulantly and sneered off a sullen retort. "I craved it all but I suppose even the weak at heart deserve something". The enamelled container flew from his grasp and landed with a heavy clatter at Bakura's feet. He did not want to pick it up. He lacked the inner strength and the moral – or was it immoral? - resolve.

"Do it!" snapped Malik. "Feast upon it and be happy you weakling!!"

Ryo nervously grasped the lid, which was still smeared with traces of red. Now, more than ever, he needed to feel the cleansing force of the Nile coursing through his veins. And by Isis, that strength was duly given. One deep breath and two seconds later the lid had been prised off and sent spinning to the ground. And there for all to see were the scattered remains of Mrs Clutterbuck's…Jam Roly Poly!

"Couldn't resist it." muttered Malik. "Strawberry jam is worth the equivalent of 100 souls and is considerably less calorific. And there was definitely no vanilla essence in it!" He looked hungrily at the receptacle. "Go on! Give us a lick!!"

Bakura sank backwards into bed, sighed despairingly and left his greedy friend to finish the conserve-laden feast. He was gradually drifting back to Buckingham Palace and his chocolate umbrellas. Yes, that would be lovely. Very lovely indeed. Much lovelier than the unfortunate visit to the Tea Rooms later that day…


	4. The Misplaced Sausage

It was 5.30am and resplendent rural idyll that it was, the morning dew was dutifully caressing the massed manicured lawns of Teetering-on-the-Brink. It glistened to perfection as the first rays of sunlight passed betwixt and between the foolishly flocculent clouds sporting in the skies above. It didn't dare do otherwise for Teetering was an irritatingly perfect picture postcard village. Nothing was out of place. Had a dandelion threatened to show it's brazen head in Mrs Amplechest's rose garden it would almost certainly been liquidated on the spot by the Royal Horticultural Society's lady stormtroopers. Had a sparrow expired whilst bobbing it's way up the High Street a post mortem, public meeting and full State funeral would have been held in it's honour. Had an unwelcome stranger threatened to move into the village they would…well, they just wouldn't dare. Teetering welcomed strangers as long as they weren't in any way 'strange'. However Mrs Clutterbuck's new guests seemed to flaunt this unwritten law and sooner or later there would be repercussions.

A thick mist hovered over the ditches that lay either side of Russet's Row like the airily breathy topping on a verdant carrot cake. It parted effortlessly, almost with balletic grace, as an electric milk float whirred and clinked it's way towards the thatched cottages ahead. The Decard Dairy Company was about to make its first doorstep delivery of the day. The 'Bide-a-Wee' Guesthouse would soon be in receipt of sixteen pints of the finest full fat Jersey milk, two pints of thick double cream and three pounds of the very best butter. The words 'skimmed' and it's lily-livered relative 'semi-skimmed' were not in the vocabulary of the D.D.C. and it's customers knew better than to ask for it. And naturally the good citizens of Teetering never did. To a portly man and buxom woman they were obstinately and aggressively high fat, high cholesterol and high blood pressure. Thumbing their noses in the face of what they believed was fat free folly, they heartily swore that they would rather die young than eat healthily - which, curiously enough, is exactly what many of them did.

Alf Spittle was the man who delivered the milk to the citizens of Teetering. He was not 'one of them' – indeed he had been born and bred on a council estate some miles away – but over the years he had been cautiously welcomed in, not as an equal but rather as a faithful servant. No villager would ever dream of asking Alf to dinner or letting him marry their daughters but it was quite acceptable to smile kindly and enquire how his football team were doing. Here was the pure essence of the British class system. Years of forelock-tugging and cap-doffing had been perpetuated through the centuries from serf to vassal, from peasant to pauper and ever onwards to dustman and milkman. Spittle's ancient ancestors had worked the patchwork of fields surrounding Teetering for more than a millennia, providing poorly paid tithed labour for their betters; that is to say, the gentlemen who could read big words and afford even bigger swords. Now Alf was doing his bit too. But in place of heaving hulking sheaves of corn to the local manor, he was manhandling multipacks of raspberry yoghurt to the quaint cottages. It was markedly less manly but an impressive continuation of the cycle of life nevertheless.

What a shock it was to Alf Spittle's sturdy constitution when he, as per usual, gaily pranced past the petunias and deftly sidestepped the cyclamen only to find himself coming face to face with the filleted form of a former fox. Stranger still was the showering of shortbread crumbs that surrounded the furry gloop, topped as it was with a couple of distressed UHT milk cartons. He was well aware that the red-jacketed members of the local foxhunt could be manic in pursuit of their prey but as far as he was concerned they had **never** filled their hip flasks with UHT. Had the bloody corpse been surrounded by gobbets of caviar and miniature bottles of brandy then, maybe. But no. The brush was still intact. This must have been the work of visiting rottweillers or (and here he crossed himself) the very devil himself! At least he was half right.

Two hours onwards and there were definite stirrings in room number 5. A heady mix of chocolate umbrellas and sweating torsos had seen the night pass in far too interesting a fashion to describe here, and it was in a state of drowsy-eyed bliss that Bakura rose gingerly from his bed. Dazzled by the sunlight breaking through the open windows he had swivelled around expecting to feel the warm sands of Egypt upon his feet and the bellowing of heavily laden camel trains in the distance. But when his shapely soles found themselves pressing down upon a sickly sweet carpet of compressed shortbread and UHT milk, and his ears were assailed by the insistent pounding of the dining room gong, he knew that the Rural West had overthrown the Mystic East. It may not have been the Gods summoning their presence but an irate Mrs Clutterbuck was not to be messed around with either.

As they shuffled sleepily into breakfast Malik and Bakura were acutely aware that the continuous clattering of utensils that had accompanied their descent downstairs had ceased quite abruptly. They felt a gentle breeze as broadsheet newspapers were smartly parted to allow peering eyes and polite nods to acknowledge their entrance. From within this sea of sensible shoes and Harris Tweed, the sisters Freebody sighed audibly as they coyly fluttered their eyelashes at the tight-trousered ones. Major Uproar harrumphed as the sprinkling of salt intended for his kedgeree bounced off an adjacent bread roll and showered his still painful hand wound. He would forgive but not forget. Mrs C. bustled in.

"Good morning gentlemen. What can I get you?"

Malik could not resist a little early morning sarcasm. "Rice and miso with green tea than-you."

Five minutes later the two friends were confronted with two bowls of milk-sodden rice crispies, a selection of frazzled sausages, a pair of over-poached eggs and two china cups of Earl Grey. "The Early Grey's extra!" snorted Mrs Clutterbuck as she charged triumphantly back into her kitchen refuge. At Bide-a-Wee such 'foreign ways' were not to be encouraged at the breakfast table.

Having decided that the sausages could be conveniently hidden and transported secretly to the hungry 'poodles' upstairs, Malik and Bakura sipped their tea and began to plan their day. After yesterday's traumatic journey from the airport – well, plenty of passing motorists had been well and truly traumatised – today would be a quiet day. They would take a stroll around the village, immerse themselves in its quaint English customs and think upon their forthcoming quest to Stonehenge. And then they could…

"Go to the Teetering Tea Rooms!"

Their best-laid plans appeared to have been noisily and pointedly overruled – but by who? Bakura tried to pinpoint the interjection. Surely the Gods weren't speaking to them through the toast rack?

"Get thee to the Teetering Tea Rooms and grab a tart!!"

Unmistakably gruff and fruity, it was the Major. Unfortunate though it was, in planning their escapades the two friends had forgotten the most basic rule of the British dining room. Let me elaborate dear reader. Upon entering the United Kingdom you should be aware that there are two tones of voice suitable for use in public areas. The Whisper and the British Whisper. The first is in common usage around the world as an acceptably secretive form of communication but to the native Brit it comes across little more than a yobbish yelp. In comparison the exalted British Whisper is secrecy enshrined. Passed on from furtive father to bashful son it is audible only to bats, high-ranking ninjas and old waitresses. In using the ordinary whisper our 'heroes' had been easily overheard and as such, had openly offered their thoughts, words and deeds for close inspection and dissection by anyone who chose to do so. Clearly they would not be allowed to leave until they agreed to the proffered suggestion.

"Tarts it is then!" scowled Malik, as he sprang up in a huff and stormed off.

Sad to say, this sudden burst of activity had done nothing for the sanctity of the (hidden) sausages. For in striving to find a good hiding place upon his person, Malik had proved horribly predictable and had simply stuffed the porky provisions down the front of his crotch. Moreover his attempt at a speedy exit as he turned sharply towards the dining room door went very badly wrong. Under such extreme duress, the tightly tailored seams split most inappropriately, and the sudden emergence of a number of well-grilled sausages from the aforesaid trouserfront led to cries of shock and at least one of amazed admiration from the surrounding diners. The Freebody sisters fainted in unison but not before they had gathered in a good eyeful of the delightful Mr Malik.

"Good God!" spluttered the Major. "Can things possibly get any worse?"

Well they could. And they did.


	5. Looking for Tarts

Back in the chintz laden mausoleum otherwise known as Room 5, the small bundle of slightly soiled sausages had not gone down at all well with the 'possessed' French Poodles. When our band of fellow travellers were first stranded at the guesthouse, the lure of traditional English cooking initially succeeded in placating both spirits and had inveigled them into staying firmly dog-bound. But when the promise of Steak and Kidney Pudding, Shepherds Pie and Lancashire Hotpot was supplanted by a meagre offering of beef bones, fox entrails and burnt chipolatas, things started to get unpleasantly edgy. If one thought Bakura's spirit was unhappy then Malik's maleficent counterpart was positively seething. He was more furious than the ancient Furies of Ouranos…and that is most impressively furious. To be more precise he was - appropriately enough - barking mad and the canine cacophony that was now rocking 'Bide-a-Wee' to its very foundations was in real danger of undermining them all. Only the unexpected appearance of a large tin of Nisshin 'Run' dog food was enough to bring the errant Ring Spirit back to heel but by this time his darker friend was well and truly off the leash. Bakura suddenly felt distinctly ill at ease. He knew all too well what was coming but past experience proved he was powerless to prevent it. He visibly winced as he watched Malik's eyes narrowing, his eyebrows arching and his mouth upturning into a scornful and sharply supercilious sneer.

"Have you missed me as much as I haven't missed you? Did my poodle-bound petulance give you 'paws' for concern? Do you think I care? Have you any idea just how badly behaved I intend to be?"

Before Bakura had time stutter a reply, Dark Malik flounced tetchily out of the room and headed for the front door. Leather lead in hand he was forcibly dragging one well-fed but rather peeved poodle behind him, recklessly scattering Mrs Clutterbuck's beautifully arranged tourist guides and postcards as he went. The Ring Spirit was going on a 'walkies' he would be unlikely to forget.

As the flamboyant threesome strode past the ticking grandfather clock and into the immaculate garden beyond, Ryou couldn't help but notice the twitching of net curtains in the nearby cottages. Our 'heroes' reputations (such as they were) had clearly preceded them and the ladies of the village were busy monitoring their progress like hardened U-Boat commanders in hot pursuit of a transatlantic convoy. Periscopes had been well and truly 'upped' and in cottages all around them, verbal torpedoes were being prepared for launch.

At this point dear reader, perhaps something ought to be said about the laws of physics and how they apply to the promulgation of scorn, scandal and scurrilous behaviour. You will doubtless be aware that the Speed of Sound (1,079,252,848.8 km/h) is easily surpassed by that of the Speed of Light. However, the Speed of Gossip trounces both into feeble submission. This travels at a rate far beyond the ken of any physicist and is capable of spreading exponentially faster than any known communicable disease. In all likelihood gossip is interplanetary and had alien races shared the same hairdresser and confidants as their human counterparts, the discovery of life in far-flung galaxies would have happened yesterday. But let us return to Teetering!

In a contrived performance worthy of any synchronised swimming team, Bakura was amazed to see just how many lady villagers suddenly felt moved to hang out their washing and walk their dogs at precisely the same time. Malik's sausage was obviously on everybody's lips and Teetering-on-the-Brink seemed to be drowning amidst a sea of billowing knickers and uncooperative canines. Leaving Russet's Row in his wake, Malik flashed his most knowing smile at a group of ladies who were deep in conspiratorial conversation just outside the Post Office. The result was instantaneous and almost against their wills they found their suppressed womanly desires unleashed. The heat generated by their fiery communal blush kick-started a nearby fridge freezer and the resultant hormonal surge oozed teasingly up the High Street. The response brought a wicked grin to Dark Malik's face.

"It would appear that this village is going to the dogs Bakura. Shall we help them on their way?"

Startled by this sickening display of girlish glee by the Teetering womenfolk, Bakura and the Dark Poodle simply sighed in unison and prepared themselves mentally for the compulsory display of shirt removal and torso rippling that would almost inevitably follow. Their only hope was for scattered showers or sudden snowstorm to dampen Malik's desire. But like so many of the events that were to follow, this was not forecast.

As he strolled further into the village Dark Malik had become increasingly accustomed to feigning the silent nods and weak smiles that Englishmen expected of their neighbours. Being punctiliously polite Bakura decided to elaborate upon this good work by adding occasional meaningless greetings. He knew that 'the weather' was always the first port of call when any Englishmen were forced into accidental conversation with one another, and so he began quite promisingly.

"Stunningly beautiful day don't you think?" (A lie),

"Wonderfully friendly village you have here!" (A lie)

"Extraordinary amount of underwear showing today!" (True but probably best left unsaid)

This last example highlighted the limits of Bakura's Englishness. It was generally sound but when put to the test, likely to collapse at any time. The underwear comment was risqué to say the least – especially as it had been addressed to Reverend Golightly -and it was almost as brazen as the overnight antics with the chocolate umbrellas. Some things are best said **and** enjoyed in private.

Upon turning the corner, Malik could hardly suppress a shout of delight as his eyes fell upon the very destination they had long dreamed of - well since breakfast anyway. The fabled Teetering-on-the-Brink Tea Rooms! Casting his mind back to Major Uproar's promise he then bellowed an earthy paean of praise to what he believed lay waiting within it's marbled (sic 'floral wallpapered') halls.

"The tart! I must have the tart!!"

Unfortunately this sensual and guttural cry was uttered forth just as the Freebodys were passing by on the other side of the street. Both sisters eagerly assumed that this racy comment was addressed to them, and unaware of its original cake-based connotation, they appeared flattered and encouraged by the unexpected outburst and went happily on their way. Poor Malik would face the consequences of his alter ego's wild ramblings at a later date.

The Teetering-on-the-Brink Tea Room had an enviable reputation both for the quality of its cakes and the severity of its waitresses. Those who chose to dine at the lace table clothed emporium could always count upon unrivalled pastry perfection but woe betide anyone who played with his knife or placed their elbows upon the table, for they were exposing themselves to the wrath of it's uniformed servants. In truth this was a major attraction for gentlemen 'of a certain inclination' – and there were many – who gleefully welcomed the tearoom as a sort of S&M parlour with sweetmeats. And the 'Miss Whiplash' behind it all was the redoubtable Ms Cynthia Strokekindly. If ever a name was misleading it was hers. Many a man had grabbed eagerly at her French Fancies only to be rebuffed by the smart application of a rolling pin to their nether regions.

The dining room was decorated in an inimitable style best described as 'Early Depressive'. In fact the sombre lined faces of the customers seemed to have been carved in the same heavy style as the solid wooden furniture. Both had eschewed grace and good taste for the gift of being 'built to last' - but ultimately it was only the ones who received a jolly good polishing who ever managed it. The linen was much the same. To Ms Strokekindly 'soft and yielding' was simply the stuff of bland romantic novelists awash in a sea of fabric conditioner. The fact that her napkins appeared to have fallen into hallucinogenic embroidery freefall was deceptive in the extreme. From a distance they _seemed_ soft but were quite the reverse. Under the severe gaze of the proprietor they were starched to perfection, starched again and then restarched until there wasn't an unstiffened or pliable atom to be found. In the hands of a knowledgeable diner or passing ninja, the crisp edge of these multi-starched napkins could be a deadly as a shuriken. Four years previously, a Mr Bladderwort had mistakenly picked one up to quell an unruly sneeze and in so doing had removed the greater part of his nose.

As Dark Malik, Bakura and the Dark Poodle entered this sifted sugar sanctuary, all tea stirring and butter spreading came to a momentary halt. Scuttling forward like a black widow spider in a mobcap, the nearest waitress pounced upon her prey and chivvied the three customers towards a large round table. Malik was impressed by her severity. Was this perhaps the sacrificial slab where they sacrificed their brazen tarts? Could that jar of mustard an essential part of the ceremony?? Might that silver fish knife really be capable of decapitating anything more than a boiled egg??? Seeing his associates deep in thought, Dark Bukura seized his chance, sprang upon one of the large bow-backed chairs and sat contentedly on his haunches ready to read the menu. Malik however had spotted the canine incursion and deftly whipcracked the leather leash sending the unfortunate poodle tumbling smartly to the ground where a large empty bowl emblazoned with the word 'DOG' awaited him. Though it was filled with a pungent assortment of bone-shaped biscuits, the 'dog' whimpered his opinion that this was not fair. For glancing over to the opposite table he could see a snappy little dachshund being fed huge slices of ham and ridiculously generous potions of cream sponge by a rotund lady who had clearly eaten more than her fair share of both. The degree to which Fritz had been grossly spoilt was obvious, for there was no longer a workable gap between its sausage-like stomach and the ground and it was transported around in a little pushchair. How hateful! But oh how delightful!! For Dark Bakura this was an opportunity too easy and too good to miss. Seconds later and a bright and rejuvenated Dark Fritz was nuzzling into the pillow-like bosom of his mistress. Cake, cream, ham and heaving bosoms followed in quick repeated succession leading to unqualified canine contentedness. Dark Bakura was now stuffed with food and more than happy to doze off into dachshund dreamland. If this was a dog's life then borrowing it temporarily had been no indignity whatsoever.

Back at the table things were not going well. Infuriated by being given a jam-dolloped pastry rather than the more womanly 'tart' he had been expecting Dark Malik had made a lusty grab for one of the younger waitresses. He now had to defend himself from Ms Strokekindly's other Black Widows by commandeering all the available fish knives and flaunting them in a convincingly menacing manner. Sadly the regular customers were all too aware how they ineffective they were against even the puniest portions of poached salmon and battle commenced. Shouting, "Let us fight for free love and self service!" Dark Malik sought to summon his own troops but one was already fast asleep in his doggy pushchair heading briskly down the High Street whilst Bakura was being awfully British and apologising profusely.

"He is so awfully artistic. This is a rehearsal for his next performance piece at the Tate Modern! Do come!!"

"It's the jam. Definitely the jam. Additives have this terrible effect on him. Particularly strawberry."

"His mother's recently died…and his father! In fact most of the people he's ever come into contact with!!"

"He's foreign"

As expected the last one worked to perfection. After much mumbling and an honest exchange of knowing looks, conciliatory handshakes were proffered and crisp starchy order restored. Dark Malik and Bakura were allowed to return sheepishly to their table and were served what they believed to be a mysterious and mystical sounding dish known as Welsh Rarebit. They both hoped it's somewhat obvious melted cheesy toastyness was deceptive. But it was not. Worse still it was neither Welsh nor rare and far from being a 'bit' there was an awful lot of it. Glancing at Ms Strokekindly's icy stare and her threatening gesture with a cream horn the two friends realised that they were not going to be released until they'd scoffed the lot. But their suffering would be nothing compared to that of Dark Fritz. For unbeknownst to him he had just slept his dachsundy way to the village veterinary surgeon where a sharp scalpel would soon deliver the unkindest cut of all…


	6. The Unfortunate Slice

It is said that ignorance is bliss, and doubtless some small crumbs of comfort can be hungrily ingested whenever a dearth of knowledge is involved. There will, I suppose, always be things that are best left a mystery. For example, knowing the projected date of one's death would be increasingly worrying as time ticked swiftly away. Being aware of the terrible inadequacy of one's first attempt at lovemaking would be embarrassingly debilitating (…and I do _not_ speak from experience!). Being told the number of times spiders have traversed one's face in the night would lead to sleepless sojourns and innumerable tiresome spider hunts. Yes there are all these and more. And yet there are those who would heartily disagree. Wouldn't the man examining candles with a naked flame like to be informed that they are actually sticks of dynamite? Wouldn't the spurned lover have given everything to know that just one more heartfelt missal would have won her back? Wouldn't it save time and innumerable wasted cupcakes to know that the miserable aunt you've been forcing yourself to be polite to, has absolutely no intention whatsoever of including you in her will?

For Dark Bakura, who had recently assumed the mantel of Fritz the overweight dachshund, the ignorant stage was still at it's most blissful. His desire to become a counterfeit canine had been rooted in hunger and it had, to all intents and purposes, paid off handsomely. Thus far, subterfuge had led to him being crammed full of cream cake and offered indecently large platefuls of meat – even allowing for the fact that the unspectacular height of a dachshund does make the most unprepossessing of undulations appear Everest-like. Such well-stuffed contentedness had seen him slip into sleep and chew greedily upon one last greedy morsel, blissfully unaware that his mistress had popped a small sleeping pill into it's midst. It was just enough to floor dear Fritz before his mistress picked him up and pushchaired the slothful sausage dog to the veterinary surgeon's. To quote his mistress, Mrs Buxomly-Fetching:

"He does get so terribly edgy you know – so like me. But at least I don't chew the cushions!"

"Apparently dogs have this extraordinary instinct that warns them of imminent danger. Thank goodness darling Fritz is sensory-defective!"

"But of course he'll understand that being neutered was necessary! I like to think of castration as a kindness. It never bothered my ex-husband!"

Thankfully Dark Malik was too deep in sleep to hear any of the above. His dreams were predictably lascivious which was handy considering his quest for practical experience was about to be cut off in its prime. As Mrs Buxomly-Fetching entered the surgery waiting room the vet bounded up to her like an over-eager Labrador and was so effusive he only just restrained himself from licking her face. Like a trained pig snuffling in the forest for rare truffles, Mr Carboy could sense the presence of a wealthy widow from miles away. So much the better if the widow was cradling a miniature dog to her ample bosom. Ah yes, Mrs Buxomly-Fetching had plenty of treats and Mr Carboy was the most devious of lapdogs. As if by magic the 'special' waiting room was swiftly unlocked – an undead lock, naturally – and Fritz and his mistress were eagerly ushered inside.

Back at the Teetering-on-the-Brink tea rooms the elderly diners had all but disappeared leaving a perceptible trail of dropped napkins and pastry crumbs behind them. A little earlier Bakura had manfully finished his Welsh Rarebit and his spirited consumption of Plum Duff, together with his unerring politeness, had seen him and the poodle released into the High Street without further ado. Dark Malik on the other hand was going nowhere. His riotous behaviour with the silver fish knives had ensured that nothing less than a two pudding challenge lay in wait. Faced with a final piece of butter-soaked toast he had been forced to swallow hard in the hope of chasing the last oily gobbet deep down into his throat before his stomach sounded the retreat. Yet within seconds two mountainous bowlfuls of Rhubarb Crumble and Treacle Tart were dropped onto the table in front of him. He had met his match and his match was smiling wantonly behind him.

Ms Strokekindly was never slow to 'crack the whip' whenever a customer overstepped the line but this Malik was different. He exuded pure sex appeal like her doughnuts oozed raspberry jam. On the surface both seemed sweet and appealing but with a little wilful encouragement each would turn wonderfully and wickedly messy. She had watched him closely since his arrival; her black leather pinafore scarcely able to contain her tightly bound body. She cooed as he roughly manhandled her meringues. Her heart skipped a beat as he bit deeply into her brownie. Her eyelashes fluttered as he tore ecstatically at her Eccles Cake. One can scarcely mention what came into mind as he played with the sugar tongs. But no matter. She sensed a kindred spirit and wished to devour him utterly - crumbs and all!

Malik was grimly toying with his tart.

"Mr Malik" she purred, "do you have any idea what I'm going to force you to do when you've finished eating?"

"Force me to do, Ms Strokekindly? Now what I wonder might that be? The washing-up perhaps?"

"No, that would be a terrible waste of a man such as yourself" (and here she paused for breathy effect) I was thinking, no dreaming, of something much much dirtier." (Her hands drifted down and brushed against his crisply starched collar) "I was thinking of something guaranteed to get you gorgeously hot and sweaty!"

He reeled back in horror. "It's the bloody oven isn't it?" he sighed in exasperation, "and I _hate_ cleaning the bloody oven!"

He gulped down a spoonful of syrupy treacle indignantly as Miss Strokekindly's eyes furtively followed the syrup into his mouth and she imagined herself wrapped around his tongue. A charge of sexual tension shot across the serviettes.

"Well, the combination of man and grease has always been particular of interest of mine Mr Malik but we are not talking ovens. Oh no. I was thinking that the two of us should slip into something comfortable and get down and dirty together!"

Malik, his senses clearly dampened by a surfeit of custard, was starting to get tetchy.

"If you think I'm going to get on my hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor you've got another sodding thing coming! Why even the bloody Winged Dragon of Ra couldn't force me to do things with a squeegee!!"

Ms S wriggled excitedly at the perverse thought of it but the focus of her lust was unmoved. Malik had wolfed down the last morsel of Treacle Tart mid-sentence and was setting upon the Rhubarb Crumble with angrily renewed gusto. Ms Strokekindly however was oblivious to this quickening consumption and was getting hungrier herself. Like countless frustrated lovers had done before her, the failure to get what she wanted was making her want it even more. She was not about to give up now.

"Do you have any idea what I'd get up to if we were locked in a room together with a jug of whipped cream and a dish of melted chocolate? Well dooo you?"

Silently, seductively she loosened her leather pinafore as if preparing for action. She could feel her steely resolve melting like ice cold butter upon piping hot toast and although she wanted to wrestle with her conscience she could only think of wrestling in mud...mud or jam...no, make that Crème anglaise! Unaware of her aroused intent Malik had heard the continuous breathy gasps behind him and was now convinced that she was mildly asthmatic. Unable to offer an inhaler, Malik was now devouring the crumble at a rate of knots.

"Um, now what could we do together?" (A hint of sarcasm entered his speech as a large helping of rhubarb was gulped down) "Now let me guess." (Another hefty mouthful is swallowed down) "It's going to be chocolate éclairs isn't it? And I loathe bloody whipped cream!"

With this retort he shot the final spoonful of custard into his mouth and slurped it safely within. But unbeknownst to Malik his deft handling of both desserts had already reduced his admirer to a quivering wreck and even as he made for the door she was left pouting passionately behind him. He turned and arched an erotically charged eyebrow in her direction.

"Madam. When I think of you – and think of you I may - I will always see a superb and sumptuous tart. Farewell!"

The door of the Teetering-on-the-Brink Tea Room rattled shut and with a knowing leer he was gone. A self satisfied Dark Malik strolled down the High Street happy to know that he had left both fallen china and a fallen woman in his wake. But Ms Strokekindly was determined to get her man. As fallen women go she had certainly not been tripped but had eagerly jumped. She may have lost the first battle of the sexes but she had not lost the war.

Back at the 'special' waiting room deep within the bowels of the veterinary surgery, Mrs Buxomly-Fetching was starting to get nervous. Surrounded by plump cushions and gaudily framed oil paintings, she had already consumed two boxes of luxury Belgian chocolates, indulged in one manicure, endured a frantic cheek-slapping facial and had read at least five articles on the guilt-free application of Botox. And now Fritz was starting to wake up! Well to her it was dear Fritz but to the well informed it was a very confused Dark Bakura. He had just attempted to ask the rather rotund lady where they were but when this request had emerged as a somewhat snappy yap it all came flooding back. The cream! The ham!! The bosom!!! The dachshund!!!! Woof indeed.

As the gentleman in the white coat emerged from the darkness and carried him aloft and out into the corridor, Dark Bakura could make out an array of important looking certificates lining the walls.

"Vet? War vet? No, surely not? But wait…"

"Vet as in…as in veterinary vet? Why yes! Yes!"

"But no! Oh no!!"

The truth was out. He had seen the scalpel. He had also seen the waiting hypodermic. And worse still he had seen the size of the freshly typed bill. None of it was pleasant - particularly that scalpel! Bakura feverishly tried to think of a way out but had scarcely settled on any plan when he felt the prick of the needle entering his skin, No amount of choccy drops would make up for this! As he felt his eyes droop he fought hard against the overwhelming desire to sleep and managed to raise a solitary lid just high enough to see a rather pretty nurse bring a parrot into view. Things were starting to get hazy but if he could just manage that one last leap…


	7. Assorted Nibbles

As he strode confidently away Malik moved like a man possessed - which curiously enough, is exactly what he was. His very being had been subsumed by his darker self and the fit was so incredibly tight that even a leather clad Catwoman, liberally doused in water and allowed to dry to a skin-puckering and tantalizingly torrid tautness could hardly compete. This combination was ruthlessly and remorselessly erotic and the sexual electricity that pulsed libidinously from his unbuttoned shirt positively fizzed. Of course one could argue that it was simply static electricity created by heavy rubbing between his silken frills and angora undergarments but either way the air was crackling with a heavy charge. For Dark Malik relished the mischief he made and when he felt so deliriously energised he genuinely believed that anything could fall within his grasp. This was when he was at his most dangerous. This predatory and playful stage was not unlike the behaviour of certain species of kinkily copulating spiders that follow their multi-legged lovemaking by dining upon their unfortunate suitors. This was not the 'food of love' envisaged by Shakespeare nor thankfully was it an eating habit particular to Malik but the reckless abandon of it all summed up his spirit rather well. Had the Freebody sisters now walked into his path they would have been ravished within seconds. In fact, even red-faced Major Uproar would have been in with a sporting chance.

Swaggering down the quaint streets Malik could sense the sighs of Teetering's frustrated women as they swooned behind their curtains in response to the rush of pheromones oozing from his tanned and toned torso. Even Tristan Crimper local hairstylist and confirmed bachelor felt a sudden urge to forgo his mousse, set aside his setting gel and go to the window to admire the body beautiful. Had Malik been able to smile any wider, the gape of his mouth would have spread so wide that he would have decapitated himself. So much to do, and so many people to do it to. By Osiris, life was exhilarating!

Back in the Teetering-on-the–Brink tea rooms Cynthia Strokekindly was feeling altogether different. Prior to the eventful meeting with Malik she had been used to having the whip hand. Up until then men had always thrown themselves at her stiletto-booted feet, eager to lap up any morsel of kindness she had grudgingly thrown in their path. She was the cliff over which these lovelorn lemmings leapt to their death. She fed upon the power generated by their frantically beating hearts and as their hopelessness grew so her dominance sparked and surged. Her eyes flashed with fire fed by the shrivelled hearts of disappointed lovers. But not today. For today she finally knew what it was like to love in vain and be rejected. The sweet smell of success she was familiar with but this had been overpowered by the bitter taste of defeat. No amount of chocolate covered, sugar-dusted pastry could combat these newfound feelings of bitterness and despair. For her taste buds had been touched by the essence of Dark Malik and had fleetingly come alive. The men she had devoured in the past now seemed so bland in comparison that even a liberal mouthful of cayenne pepper would have been unable to render them spicy and appealing. A little while earlier she had sat down ready to enjoy a full serving of the mysterious stranger but had been rudely informed that he was off the menu. Her hunger had been aroused but unassuaged. In her mind there was little doubt that the two of them would dine together once more but whom she wondered was going to eat who? Her desire to taste Malik was now all-consuming. Good god, life was unpredictable!

In Room 5 of the Bide-a-Wee Guesthouse Bakura was lying on his bed, languidly stretched out on the eiderdown nibbling upon a plateful of custard creams whilst two tongues licked eagerly away at his thighs. But this sordid scene was not what it seemed! For although in an ideal world these tongues would have belonged to a couple of frilly-knickered French Maids, in reality they belonged to nothing more than a pair of crumb seeking French Poodles. Even so, all three were relaxed and happy, more than content to spend a quiet night in planning for the day ahead. Of course Ryo was inwardly concerned about the whereabouts of his errant Spirit of the Ring but he had every confidence that the miscreant could take good care of himself. He put down his biscuits and allowed himself a good talking to.

"I mean, what on earth could happen in a quaint village like this? At worst he's been knocked grazed by a speeding bicycle or more likely bored to death by an overlong sermon from Reverend Golightly. It's not as if there's anyone lurking behind closed doors waiting for him with a sharp knife!" He chortled contentedly, unaware of the poignancy of his prose and bit deeply into a custard cream. By Jove, life was good!

Back in the garden the shadows thrown by the rose bushes gradually lengthened as the sun sank slowly down into the horizon. Evening stillness was descending upon the village and the twittering of birds had been replaced by the grim 'caw' of a raven now occupying the uppermost branches of the big oak tree that overlooked Bide-a-Wee. Unlike the unfortunate Ms Strokekindly this jet black bird had a definite glint in it's eye, as if he had just been given the complete works of Edgar Allen Poe and had been informed of his starring role in the poetry section. The raven's eyes scoured the garden beneath him for a tempting repast but other than sweet-scented rose petals nothing came into view. The previous evening had been different though. A delicious fox carcass, which had been a totally unexpected but messy feast. Unusual that. As a raven he was a past master in the art of scavenging from road kills but such dainty treats didn't normally turn up in twee rose gardens. To his knowledge no heavy trucks and fast cars had been diverted through Mrs Clutterbuck's back garden and unless the fox had received a deathblow from a speeding hydrangea he was at a loss to explain what had happened. But no matter, for he had fed well and would happily do so again. But he would watch out for that hydrangea.

Unexpectedly finding himself falling into contemplative mood the raven was about to squawk out the word "Nevermore" when a flurry of colour passed before his eyes and settled on the branch next to him. He hardly dared look. On one particularly memorable windswept night he had been unsettled by a colourful spirit that had floated towards him with seemingly evil intent. Closer inspection had shown this to be nothing more than a pair of brazenly scarlet silk camiknickers that had been propelled skywards by the gale force winds. The bird had been embarrassed by their unannounced arrival but not as embarrassed as Mrs Amplechest when she spotted them gaily waiving from the tree the next morning. But this 'thing' was different. What on earth was it? As he turned to look, 'it' spoke. 'It' was certainly not a pair of knickers.

"You are aware that I am not here of my own choosing? You understand that I have no desire to spend the entire evening sitting on this godforsaken wind swept branch? You are aware that I am totally unfamiliar with the concepts of screeching and perching?"

The raven's beak gaped in amazement. He was now staring at the most magnificent display of coloured plumage he'd ever seen. English gardens boasted bird life aplenty but normally they were mixtures of muddied browns, blotches of black and shades of grey. But this was a winged rainbow. A feathery stitched together flurry of reds and greens, blues and purples, oranges and yellows all surmounted by a pair of wings and a beak. It was beautiful! It was entrancing!! But what, he wondered, did it taste like? Alas he never got to find out, as seconds later a flurry of black feathers floated down from the tree and settled gently upon the shrivelled fur of the fox carcass. Up aloft the talking parrot threw back it's head and savoured the last slivers of raven flesh, carefully rubbing it's beak against the oaken branch to remove all traces of it's hurried meal. Would the Dark Parrot ever consider dining upon raven again?

Quoth the parrot, "Nevermore."

"...but I could murder a custard cream!"


	8. A Terrible Pickle

Excess is not usually smiled upon in modern culture. To the pure of heart it wreaks of wild profligacy, moral turpitude and indulgent debauchery. Weaknesses that repulse many but continue to wield a fatal attraction for a chosen few. Excess may be sexual or financial, a solitary sin or a group activity. For their part Dark Malik and Dark Bakura were known to be particularly fond of it and whenever accused of lacking moral fibre they were normally more than happy to agree. Lust, murder, greed, gluttony - they had walked in the shadows for centuries leaving no pleasure unexplored and no depth unplunged. With this in mind it seemed particularly strange that here of all places, in the parochial backwater of Teetering-on-the-Brink, Bakura should find himself entranced and mesmerised by a new libidinous luxuriance. For he had become slave to that most wanton of biscuits, the custard cream. It's hard rectangular outer layers spoke of Pythagorean order and flour-based common sense. Its crisp crunch was precise and clean, a strict and orderly snap to the senses. Ah, but what lay betwixt and between? A luscious layer of creamy wantonness that summoned up the free spirit of runny custard and yet held it stiff and firm in a thick layer of sweet sensuality. These biscuits had arrived innocently enough on the tea tray but had long since entangled his taste buds in their biscuity bondage. He wanted to say no but had been enslaved by their sweetness. The mountainous pile of empty cellophane wrappers that had collected on the bedroom floor spoke of this sugary sinfulness. A superlative sugar rush was driving Bakura onwards and in its glucosidal grasp he had already made an impressive looking pyramid out of purloined mini-cartons of UHT milk. Frankly he needed to get out more.

He was in the process of dedicating this UHT Temple to the Dark God Zork Necrophades when he became aware of a loud knock at both the door _and_ the window. The first he could well understand, as earlier in the day Malik had left the room sans keys and was doubtless seeking entrance. But the rap on the window was another matter. Either it was a particularly conscientious 24 Hour window cleaner or an unusually polite cat burglar. So it came as a considerable surprise when he threw open the curtains and saw a brightly coloured parrot staring in through the diamond leaded panes of glass. Imagine his horror when it flew in and harangued him for…

"…eating the last of the sodding custard creams you tomb robbing ard!"

To his knowledge Long John Silver had not had to put up with this sort of abuse.

It was a full ten minutes before the parrot was 'persuaded' to fly down from it's temporary perch on top of the light fitting. To be honest Dark Malik had knocked it off with a stick but in his current manic mood a light stick thrashing counted as gentle persuasion. A few erudite squawks later and the sad tale of Fritz the dachshund and the emergency emasculation had been told from promising beginning to dismal end. The Dark Parrot obviously believed that he'd had a lucky escape but Dark Malik and Bakura weren't so sure and couldn't help but notice that the bird had been walking across the eiderdown with a slight limp. They both feared that those feathers were hiding a terrible truth and only once he left the bird's body would Dark Bakura be in a position to check out the real state of his accoutrements. For now he was given temporary perch in the wardrobe and access to a hidden pack of custard creams with which to ease his pain. On the other hand Dark Malik and Bakura were all set for a night on the town. 

But let us not get too excited, for in Teetering-on-the-Brink a 'night on the town' normally meant one of two things - a beetle drive at the vicarage or a dire evening in the local hostelry. But this hostelry was different! In his musky march through the village Malik had overheard locals speak of a traditional British pub called the 'Change of Heart' and he'd distinctly heard them say that tonight it would be 'Domino City'! Bakura's heart raced! Domino City! He thought of his father, and he saw the museum he'd long curated with care. But sadly the one thing he didn't think of were sad old men shuffling dot spotted ivory rectangles in a slightly dull pub game. Life is one interminable learning curve is it not?

There were no real celebrities to be found in Teetering-on-the-Brink, which inevitably ensured that this dubious soubriquet was all too easily won. One man had been speedily elevated to the status of 'degenerate crime lord' simply because he'd received no fewer than three parking tickets. Another had owned a three-legged dog but their star faded soon after it wobbled sideways into the village pond and ignominiously drowned. However there was always Rodney Nerdlington, for within Teetering's pathetically small pond Rodney was a big fish. A jobbing electrician of many years standing, he'd been smiled upon by Lady Luck and had ended up as one of the technicians working on London's Year 2000 celebrations. Rod had been closely involved with all the main attractions from the Millennium Wheel to the Millennium Dome. He'd even wangled a ticket for the big event on New Year's Eve and had regaled the villagers with lurid gossip of scandal and overspends. Little wonder then that he was known throughout the village as 'Millennium Rod'. On the face of it this was nothing more than a charming nickname but it was about to land him and his associates in an awful lot of trouble.

At first sight Domino Night at the 'Change of Heart' seemed extremely unlikely to set pulses racing. To be quite honest very few things were capable of managing that in Teetering - a faultily wired electric blanket or an overdose of Viagra were the usual suspects. However this traditional pub game had become a symbolic battleground between the village of Teetering-on-the-Brink and its hated rival, Wallowing-in-the-Gore. Though it had originally started out as a good-hearted 'Tom and Jerry' play fight, the annual tournament had - thanks to a succession of ill tempered inter-village affairs and sex scandals – stumbled blindly through 'Les Liaisons Dangereux' and become messily transformed into 'The Revenger's Tragedy'. Behind the gentle clattering of ivory pieces lay lust and hatred, pride and disdain. It was much more than a game. Victory meant an annual assertion of dominance, a confirmation of moral righteousness - oh, and 365 days possession of a nice little silver cup too! This year the Teetering captain was none other than Rodney Nerdlington and the Wallowing team were determined to stop that man dead. As fate would have it, this year's battle would also be graced by the presence of Dark Malik and Ryo Bakura. It was unlikely to end well…

Our two 'heroes' had obviously heard about English pubs and were keen to experience such a legendary cultural icon. But precisely what they'd heard was clearly open to question, as both men were dressed in outfits that drew heavily upon tight leather and seemed over reliant on a dizzying selection of zips and chains. The information they'd been given was obviously very selective and probably originated from a specialist watering hole in the London area. For their part the 'Change of Heart' locals had never seen anything like it and as the two friends flounced into the lounge bar something very similar to the rhythmic beating of drums could be heard. A tribal welcome perhaps? No. It was the relentless thud of jaws dropping onto the wooden pub tables below. Although the assembled beer drinkers were already familiar with Malik and Bakura's heady reputation, they were woefully unprepared for their fashion sense. 

Malik, seeking to savour the finest food that such establishments could offer, hungrily approached the bar, aimed a quizzical eyebrow at the barmaid and began his culinary quest.

"Whatever you have to give, I want! You will open yourself to my very being and revel in satisfying my desires! (A worrying amount of unzipping could be heard) Surely you can see that I have cravings greater than normal men! (The leather outfit squeaked indulgently) I can see that you have fulfilled the dreams of many. (Much "Too bloody right matey!" muttering from nearby drinkers) Immerse yourself in me and satiate my longings!"

The barmaid was staring vacantly at his open leather shirt. Clearly distracted from the task in hand she would give him the one thing that most men asked of her. Well, one of the things. But hopefully not the one involving the bicycle. All that would come later. For now a purposefully pointed pout would have to suffice. She pouted purposefully.

This provocatively submissive gesture was much to Malik's liking and a leathery ripple of pleasure squeaked through his entire body. But he was not to be shaken from the task in hand. He smiled wickedly and fired off a suggestive plea.

"I need to bite into something now!" He shook his head and snapped at the air suggestively, tearing at it with his gleaming white teeth. An old gentleman sitting nearby nervously shifted his chair three feet to the left. Malik hungrily surveyed the bar with eager eyes. And found what he had been looking for. They fell upon an array of large glass containers each guarding a fabled delicacy within. He surveyed them with interest and unavoidably felt his mind drifting back to the ancient pharaohs and their canopic jars. The one marked 'Pickled Gherkin' was particularly disturbing. He knew exactly which organ it most resembled and could only assume that the pharaoh it originally belonged to had been very unwell indeed. The contents of the remaining jars were hardly any better. Were they the product of ceremonial nostril extrusion? By Osiris, even the four sons of Horus would turn away from that! The barmaid sensed his repulsion.

"Don't blame you darlin'. I'd go for the crisps if I were you. Plain, cheese and onion or salt and vinegar?"

Malik gathered up an armful of the salt and vinegar crisps and a single packet of plain. He returned to the table where Bakura was sitting overcome by boredom and eagerly prepared to taunt him remorselessly. As a result of the sugar-filled day at the tea rooms Ryo had developed a painful mouth ulcer and had been studiously avoiding anything acid. But as he mournfully gazed at the assembled crisp packets Malik snatched away the single bland one, crushed it menacingly and gestured at the rest.

"I want you to eat all of these…slowly. Do it for me, slave!"

As Ryou pulled apart the first packet the heady tang of sharp vinegar wafted through the air and hit the back of his throat. He knew what was coming and winced accordingly. Malik thrust the bag into his face.

"I don't want any sucking you wimp! I want to hear you crunch!"

Bakura glared back at his smiling tormentor and manfully stuffed a handful of the sharp edged crisps into his mouth. As he bit through them the serrated edges of the fried potato slivers snagged at his open ulcer sending jolts of exquisite pain shooting skywards. Malik beamed with pleasure and waited for what would surely follow. Toying with his zips and arching an eyebrow in eager anticipation, he could taste Ryo's horror as the pungent flavour of acid vinegar washed around his mouth and seeped into the fleshy wound. An adjacent tankard of ale was quickly pulled away lest Ryo was tempted to take a gulp and escape the torture. And so it continued. One bag down – four to go. This was snacking S&M style.

It was during a rare crunch free moment of silence that Dark Malik allowed his mind to wander and float over to a nearby table. Seated around it were six members of Wallowing-in-the-Gore's crack domino team. They had been discussing tactics for that evening's tournament and had desperately turned to tough talking to whip up their bravado. They now focussed on their nemesis, Rodney Nerdlington.

"He's the man we've got to get. He's got the power!"

"And the reputation to go with it!"

"I know, I know. Everyone's frightened of what he can do but if we're going to be victorious then someone's got to take him out."

"So what do you suggest?"

Malik's mind stopped wandering and started paying close attention. Power. Reputation. Fear. They just had to be talking about him! The men moved closer together, almost banging heads in their effort to be conspiratorial.

"We must destroy...Millennium Rod!"

That was the clincher. Dark Malik suddenly brushed away the remaining crisp packets from the table and flashed an extremely evil smile at Bakura. These fools would never get their hand on his beloved rod. Why, even his closest friend could only brush against it with written permission and a month's notice. The fate of these interfering idiots was sealed. In this ultimate fight for world domination he would ensure that Wallowing's domino team would die ignominiously!

The rest of the evening's entertainment went rather well considering. Poor Bakura was only made to eat three pickled gherkins and Teetering-on-the-Brink was trounced in the tournament leaving a despondent Rodney to slink back into ignominy. The six members of the Wallowing-in-the-Gore domino team revelled in their brief moment of triumph and lifted the small silver Domino Cup. They tasted victory and it tasted good…at least until they reached the car park. All backslaps and bonhomie, the first they knew of anything untoward was the curious sound of squeaking leather and metal zips. Seconds later Dark Malik personally introduced them to the real Millennium Rod, which soon left the small silver cup surrounded by six even smaller piles of ash. 

Later that night, as the buxom barmaid brushed away the curious layer of dust from Malik's leather trousers she could scarce imagine what she was getting into. 


	9. Artificial Colouring

The importance of colour can never be understated and its subliminal effect on the human psyche is considerable. Draw from the proper palette and you have extraordinary power at your disposal to create a mood and set a scene. The colour black - or shall we nitpick and say absence of colour? – has often been used to illustrate the murky depths of a man's soul and was undoubtedly used to emulsion the internal workings of Dark Malik from floor to ceiling. Also much favoured amongst connoisseurs of French underwear it adds a certain je ne sais quoi to proceedings as it hints at a soupcon of wickedness to come. Red on the other hand is redolent of dangerous passion and a fiery untameable temperament. Again popular on the underwear front (and indeed underwear rear) it is rather more brazen and could perhaps be criticized for being a tad too enthusiastic? On this particular evening and worn to great effect by Nancy the buxom barmaid it had a delightful 'warming' effect upon Malik. Not that he needed warming up. Certainly not. Like one of those power hungry devices that are the bane of the environmentally aware, Malik had an appliance that was always on standby. And the breeze blowing in from the bedroom window so impressively caressed the frills and furbelows of Nancy's red underwear that it made it look as if she was rather pleasantly on fire. Malik needed no further encouragement. He had never been slow in associating pain with pleasure and a bit of sexual singeing seemed rather splendid. But then of course there was question of her hair.

Nancy was ridiculously well cast in her role as barmaid. She was cheerful (which was difficult when faced with jars of pickled gherkins), understanding (which was difficult when faced with men who deserved to be left by their long-suffering wives and girlfriends) and rather well endowed (which was difficult when faced with shops that sold painfully inadequate bra sizes). She was a woman whose future was well and truly in front of her which, depressingly, seemed to prevent 99.9 of men from recognizing her sharp intelligence. As a result the nickname 'Brainbox Nancy' had been quickly passed over in favour of the entirely predictable 'Big Nancy'. This was unfortunate for her but in years to come even more unfortunate for Malik. For his nights of passion spent with a certain 'Big Nancy' would spread throughout the world having a quite deleterious effect upon his reputation but one which, secretly, he rather enjoyed. But I digress! Let us return to the hair.

Now Nancy was quite a feisty individual. Years spent endlessly waiting for people to make the simplest of choices had made her increasingly, shall we say, spiky. When choosing between packets of salt and vinegar, cheese and onion or purely plain crisps, pub customers normally spent so long deliberating that even Pontius Pilate would have washed his hands of them and thrown them some pork scratchings.. But dear Nancy simply smiled…and waited…and waited…and smiled. But the ease with which she poured the pints and gathered in the gossip was deceptive, and once off duty she was very different. For then she donned spiked collars and bracelets that represented her prickly feelings towards these idiot customers, and wilfully adopted a starkly challenging 'look' that invited passers by either to raise an eyebrow or the white flag of surrender. Recently she'd also taken to dying her hair a particularly vivid shade of scarlet that made her look like the rather attractive survivor of a near fatal road accident. However, on this particular night Dark Malik couldn't help thinking of traffic lights, and although Nancy's body language was sighing 'Yes!' her bobbing red hair seemed to be shouting a somewhat bewildering 'No!'. Thankfully such coital confusion was only temporary and Dark Malik soon reverted to type, proving more than happy to stack up a number of fines for running this particular red light. Thus his sexual association with the occasional 'Big Nancy' had well and truly begun.

I shall spare readers any further details of the lusty proceedings that followed but will allow myself the following purple passage.

The moonlight shined through the latticed window and was refracted into a myriad of illuminated beads by the breathy condensation that dripped suggestively down each pane of glass. There! When Malik finally left the boudoir to stagger home through Teetering-on -the-Brink he was most delightfully dazed and well and truly out of it. Although this wasn't an unusual state of mind for the Dark One, when faced with pitch black unfamiliar territory, groping his way back to Bide-a-Wee's Room 5 was to prove remarkably difficult. Careering through the garden he first trampled underfoot a complete bed of prize violets and then went on to leave an unpleasant indigo stain on the hallway carpet. Stumbling up the stairs he realized that finding the right bedroom was going to be a lottery in which he was unlikely to be a winner. There were however plenty of losers.

The first to get an unpleasant surprise was Major Uproar whose penchant for wearing frilly bed socks only served to trigger brazen barmaid memories in the somnambulant and drunken Malik. His eager advances were only halted his eager advances when he came face to face with the unfamiliar prickle of a walrus moustache. The stranger quickly lurched back into the shadows and on to the landing leaving a bleary-eyed Major to attribute it all to a rather grim nightmare brought on by too much ruby port and Blue Stilton. Next on the list for an unwelcome visitor was Mr Karita in Room 3. This time Malik's eager advances were rather slow in grinding to a halt and the shocking experience was to colour poor K's attitudes and inhibitions for many years to come. From that time onwards he could never enter the communal showers at the gymnasium without a cold sweat glistening on his fevered brow; and whenever he went into a brown study he would always emerge as white as a ghost.

Last but certainly not least the final guests to receive an unusual visitation from our confused night assailant were Muriel and Mavis Freebody. The sudden arrival of Dark Malik in the spinster sisters' bedroom produced only one scream and that was from Malik himself. The gals were really rather delighted. Lust or liberty? Hmm. It was a painful choice for him to make and his answer was obvious. A sordid two hours passed before he was finally prised from their grateful grasp but he did leave two highly contented ladies in his wake who could hardly believe their luck. Once word had got round – and believe me, get round it most surely would - the rampant womenfolk of Teetering-on-the-Brink would be green with envy!

The effect of all these comings and goings was immediate. Next morning the Freebody's smiles at breakfast were so infinitesimally broad and beaming that guests eating at the tables opposite were forced to don sunglasses and duck under the tablecloths. And once the delinquent duo had sloped into the dining room it was as if an unremitting toothy spotlight was being shone in their faces. Malik's head was almost jolted back by this glare of attention and when Mrs Clutterbuck slapped a wizen sausage on his greasy plate a bilious yellow hue flushed into his face replacing his former, but seldom seen, pink splash of embarrassment. Meanwhile Major Uproar buried his head deep within a large bowl of yellow grapefruit segments silently praying that it really had all been a terrible dream. Between bitter mouthfuls he could be seen to shudder violently before mumbling, "Dear god, please let it be the Stilton!" But what of poor Mr Karita? Well following the shock of his especially unfortunate brief encounter he'd made immediate plans to flee the country and after running purple-faced towards the Heathrow check-in desk, had boarded the fastest jet available and was soon chasing the familiar orange sun back to his homeland from whence it had risen.

It has been a most eventful night - one might almost even describe it as colourful - but thankfully no one had died. Apart that is from the entire visiting dominoes team. But as ever, worse was to follow. For although Malik, Bakura, poodles and limping parrot were about to pursue their mysterious quest to Glastonbury there was one final social event that stood in their way. Later that afternoon they would all be taking part in the most back-stabbingly and grimly competitive shenanigans they had ever seen. The annual Teetering-on-the-Brink Village Fête! In a few short hours ordinary people would come to fear feathers, run from vegetables and hide in terror from small cakes. There would be suffering, destruction and candyfloss on an extraordinary scale and for some unfortunate entrants it would indeed turn into a fête worse than death!


	10. The Last Supper

Midday and a loud resounding knock at the entrance of the Bide-a-Wee Guest House shook Major Uproar from his gin-soaked slumbers and did disconcerting things to the cuckoo inhabiting the clock on the dining room wall. The insistent rapping was hardly an unusual occurrence given the large number of visitors who crossed the threshold daily in search of fried bread full English breakfasts and traditional Roast Beef Sunday lunches but this was different. For as she swung open the heavy oak door Mrs Clutterbuck's gaze alighted upon the pair of knockers before her and her face dropped. Not a literal drop you understand, for although many of the female inhabitants of Teetering had become Botox laden, Mrs C. only had to look presentable for Sebastian her pet bulldog. That frankly did not take much effort and as a result she was still happily in full control of all her facial muscles. The reason her face dropped was simple. Shock, horror and grave grave disappointment. For there on the threshold stood a group of people she'd been hoping never to see again - and amazingly she wasn't thinking of Malik and Ryo. There, inelegantly bandaged and looking considerably the worse for wear was George, Dorothy and little Willy Neatly. The fearsome family had returned!

The Neatly's arrival at the guesthouse had - if you remember dear reader - been somewhat delayed by the unexpected entry of Malik's Nightmare Wheel into the side of their Honda Civic. Mr Neatly had often been perturbed by the scattering of bird droppings on his reliable little car so imagine his surprise when a flurry of whirring, rotating knives started to gut the old girl from boot to bumper. Within seconds his Honda had become little more than an éclair with a steering wheel and the resultant shrapnel was enough to hospitalize the entire family and ruin a bagful of egg and cress sandwiches that had been specially prepared for the journey. A stay in hospital had however worked miracles and although Mr Neatly now contained more stitches than his wife's woollen tights, he had come to Bide-a-Wee glowering with barely suppressed anger and in fighting spirit.

It soon became clear that the family was in no mood for niceties – in fact, they never were. Like living breathing aspartame they initially appeared pleasant but this artificial sweetness but soon melted away to reveal something distinctly unpleasant. The family roughly pushed their way past the old lady and flowed like a destructive lava stream into the kitchen beyond where they quickly lay waste to an assortment of cakes, biscuits and feeble looking chicken legs. Sebastian tried to rally some sort of defence on his mistress's behalf but his wheezy bluster-filled barking was soon silenced and the swift application of George's boot saw the bulldog sprawling through the air towards the rose bushes. Mrs Clutterbuck could scarce contain her horror. The Neatly's could scarce contain their delight. In fact their gloating left them quite unaware that Malik, Bakura and their limping and non-limping animal followers had stalled whilst descending the staircase and were rooted to the spot carefully eavesdropping on every word.

"You and I have some talking to do Florence. Or rather I shall be doing the talking and you shall do the listening. Do I make myself clear?"

Mrs Clutterbuck nodded mournfully. George Neatly spoke with the cold demeanour of someone who was used to having no friends. He worked for a living evaluating the assets of old companies, buying them for a pittance and then stripping them of their assets often leaving their faithful workforce mouldering on the scrapheap. He knew the value of everything but the worth of nothing and his callous nature had enabled him to become rich but never, it would seem, rich enough.

"Aunty, Aunty, Aunty. You know that you're far too old to be running a ramshackle establishment like this. Sign a few documents passing the property over to me and I can guarantee you a quick sale and a place in the Teetering Home for Crumblies will be yours for the asking. For gods sake, who in their right mind would give their patrons a never-ending supply of custard sodding creams?"

Bakura glared with displeasure and contemplated the sudden withdrawal of his much-loved biscuit fetish. Nobody was going to touch his sweetmeats without suffering the consequences! They continued to listen…

"You're offering what nobody wants…well nobody apart from your sad bunch of resident eccentrics; and they're in a worse state of repair than the bloody guesthouse! (Cue much gnashing of teeth and beaks from the stairwell) Hotel and motel chains are the way ahead. Identical quality controlled products for the masses. Portion control with no wastage and the bleeding-heart personal touch replaced by efficient service. I mean, what sort of personal service can an eighty year old offer?"

At this point George paused to insert a theatrically wicked sneer and quite failed to hear Malik's snort of indignation as he cast his mind back to a special supper of sushi on toast that had been served to him by Mrs Cluterbuck. It was of course disgusting but he had appreciated the effort. What he didn't appreciate was this upstart's attempts to manipulate defenceless women. That was his job.

"To be quite brutal dear Aunt – and here he reinforced his words by roughly manhandling an adjacent sausage – I could do with a bit of additional investment cash and the dear old Bide-a-Wee would allow me to set up my new money-making scheme. Pyramid selling!"

He did go on to elaborate further but the juxtaposition of the words 'pyramid' and 'selling' were quite enough for our two 'heroes' whose misunderstanding of this rather dodgy concept now erupted into fury and quite blotted out the conversation in the kitchen. Dark Malik was seething.

"By the Right Leg of the Forbidden One, nobody is going to sell our beloved pyramids to the infidels! Our cultural heritage shall not be cashed in because of reckless greed!! This George Neatly shall not mire our monuments in moulah!! May the curse of a thousand…"

The next section rambled on for a considerable amount of time taking in large amounts of brain insects, mind crushes and premature burials along the way. Should you wish to include your own curses please do so, for Malik undoubtedly covered most of them in his rant as the poodles, parrot and two friends became increasing agitated and dangerously animated. Suffice to say our small group of eavesdroppers were far from happy and had their lust for revenge not propelled them over the banisters and into a sprawling heap on the floor below George would never have known of their existence. All three Neatly's stuck out their heads from behind the kitchen door to see what was causing all the commotion. Eyeing the hapless crew a supercilious snort of 'Foreigners!' was enough to quieten their suspicions and they went back inside as the 'foreigners' dusted themselves off. To a man, dog and parrot the response from inside the dust cloud was unanimous…

"The Neatly's shall die! "

--)()()()()(--

The Teetering-on-the-Brink Village Fête was an institution. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that those who took part deserved to be locked up in one. For well over 100 years it had been the high point of the village calendar; a motley assemblage of cut flowers and cakes, high teas and even higher drama. Envisaged as a mildly competitive gathering together of the whole community, this annual bun fight had degenerated over the years and now led to more division, divorces, feuds and common assaults than all other local customs put together. Except perhaps for Juddering-on-the Edge's highly dubious 'Virgin Queen Festival' in which, to considerable embarrassment, no local girl had triumphed since 1923 and where all the winners of recent years had credentials as insubstantial as their indecorous undergarments.

Make no bones about it; the reputation of the Fête was so fearsome that even the inmates of the nearby open prison would lock themselves in their cells for fear of stumbling into the event by mistake. In fact in Victorian times the gathering had been mentioned by Charles Darwin to illustrate his theory that the survival of the fittest was a process favoured not simply by the blood crazed Tyrannosaurus Rex but also by crazed vicars and middle-aged spinsters. Darwin personally attended the event back in 1887 but he'd been so shaken by what happened to him in the judging tent of the 'Largest Cactus' contest that he could never admire a succulent again without bursting into tears and immersing himself in a warm bath of camomile tea.

Back then this rural romp had been originally organised by the charmingly named Teetering Women's Invitational Guild - otherwise known somewhat inappropriately as the TWIGs. This was a contradiction in terms if ever there was one as brittle and delicate they were most certainly not, but having such a delightfully fey nickname did the members no harm whatsoever. For over a century the local men folk had simpered and smiled asininely whilst acquiescing to absolutely everything the women demanded of them, only realizing later that they had delivered frightening amounts of influence and authority to what was basically the cake-baking equivalent of the Waffen SS. Indeed had Nazi stormtroopers been able to cook deliciously light puff pastry sausage rolls then the TWIGs would probably have welcomed them with open arms and spiked rolling pins. The only man allowed near the organising committee was the Reverend Golightly Chairman of the Judges and all round good egg. He had been given this honorary position in the light of his profound ineffectuality and willingness to be browbeaten into submission whenever the circumstances required it. His presence thus allowed the men of the village to imagine they were still in control when they were anything but. The previous incumbent Canon Touchéfeely had been an entirely different kettle of fish and had to be 'dealt with'. He had caused considerable controversy amongst the women by trying to exert real influence on their affairs. It wasn't long before the Twigs decided that a little pruning was called for, and soon afterwards it was conveniently discovered that this saintly founder of the local Foundation for Fallen Women had been responsible for tripping most of them up in the first place. His departure from the village was swift indeed and the serried ranks of curtain twitchers were happy to revel in his fall from Grace. Grace being the rather comely and enthusiastic temptress who gave evidence against him…

With all these dirty dealings in mind, it can come of no surprise to discover that the erstwhile Obergruppenführer of the TWIGs was none other than Ms Cynthia Strokekindly, mistress of the Teetering-on-the-Brink Tea Rooms and leather-clad exponent of the most highly whipped cream in the county. She was the one who eagerly cracked the whip when it came to organising the annual junket and as Malik's spurned lover, this year she had an axe to grind too…well that and a rather impressive collection of other sharp and pointy objects. Yes, this year's fête looked as if it was going to break new records; and in particular the one regarding personal injury insurance claims.

It was impossible to live in Teetering and not play a part in the village fête. Avoidance was not yet punishable by death but had the Parish Council been able to get away with it regular stake burnings in the village square would have been worryingly well attended. Whether organising, participating or donating everyone was expected to 'get stuck in' and the oldest get-stuck-inner of them all was dear Mrs Clutterbuck. However this year she had other things on her mind. George Neatly had just forced her to sign a number of dubious but legally binding documents and she was tortured by the realization that 'Bide-a-Wee' would soon be 'Gone-for-Good'. Such was her sorrow that her promise to enter, as per usual, in at least three competition categories at the fête looked well nigh impossible. She knew the Neatly's would be there gloating and if she could just win a final flurry of champion rosettes it would be a final futile gesture they would never forget. Well, not for a few hours anyway…

Malik's unexpected entry into the kitchen could not have come at a better time.

"Dear lady, I believe you are under duress? Something I absolutely abhor seeing unless I happen to be the one doing the duressing! I believe I have seen this George Neatly before for it was his horrible Honda Civic that blunted revolving knife 23A on my Nightmare Wheel. No, you must not forgive him and neither shall I. He shall be thwarted in his attempt to sell off my Motherland's pyramids and the Right Leg of the Forbidden One will be forcefully inserted into an area of his anatomy which I blush to mention!"

There was no question about it. Mrs C knew he was raving mad but she needed help and he and his friends could be the ones to help her enjoy a modicum of revenge.

"Mr Malik. I am unsure what precise talents window dressers such as yourself can draw upon but I believe anyone who has the courage to wear trousers like that has a steely resolve and pain threshold to match anyone's. If you and your associates can enter the Teetering-on-the-Brink Village Fête on my behalf and win at least three rosettes then I can rest in peace… or at least have a nice lie down on the settee. It's eighty years since I first entered the competition and I have a tradition to uphold. Before Bide-a-Wee closes it must have it's walls graced by new awards! Can you do this for me?"

But before Malik could murmur his reply the Dark Parrot now gracing his shoulder answered for him.

"Just try stopping us."

And with that, supper was served…


End file.
